


Four Doors

by veritascara



Series: Ad Astra [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Difficult Decisions, F/M, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Medical Examination, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-27 22:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16228964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritascara/pseuds/veritascara
Summary: Hera and the Ghost crew return to Yavin IV, where she must confront tough decisions about what her future will look like.





	Four Doors

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the next installment of Ad Astra for all of you lovely readers! (Finally!) I hope the length of this story makes up for the delay in posting it. If "Dehiscence" was written in a sprint, this one was definitely a marathon. Enjoy!
> 
> As with the other stories in this series, this one can stand on its own, if you have not read the others. Within the series, this is definitely the glue that will bind it all together. 
> 
> Thanks as always to [Anoray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anoray/pseuds/Anoray) and [uhura_ismylastname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uhura_ismylastname/pseuds/uhura_ismylastname) for their wonderful beta advice and encouragement! I couldn't do it without you both! Seriously.

“You going to be okay?” Zeb asked.

“Of course,” Hera said breezily, straightening her spine and trying her best to appear a whole lot more put together and energetic than she felt as she crossed the cargo bay behind him.

“You’re not very convincing. You threw up three times this morning.”

Hera didn’t dignify that comment with a response. And Zeb was wrong anyways. She’d actually thrown up–

“No.” Sabine stepped up to her other side. “It was four times.”

Hera groaned as she shot a glance at the girl. She could always trust Sabine to be painfully honest when needed. But while her tone was laced with sarcasm, her eyes bore a deep concern, and for good reason. It hadn’t been the greatest day so far.

Hera looked away and exhaled slowly. They’d put off this day for as long as they feasibly could, and it still didn’t feel like enough. But they were here now, and there was nothing she could do but deal with it.

She smacked the control to lower the ramp a little harder than necessary, and winced at the resulting pain in her hand.

The Ghost’s docking bay ramp, faithful as ever, lowered steadily, a doorway from the world she’d spent the last couple months cocooned in to the greater Rebellion beyond. The bright morning light momentarily blinded her vision, and the humid heat of Yavin IV’s atmosphere clung to her skin within seconds. Hera blinked as she stepped down the ramp, taking in the couple dozen or so rebellion members standing at attention along either side of their path and the familiar white-haired man just beyond them. She fought the urge to roll her eyes at the welcoming committee and simply shook her head at the unnecessary display.

“Welcome back, General Syndulla,” General Dodonna said warmly, clasping her hands in greeting. “It’s good to have you back.”

“Thank you, General, it’s good to be back, but you didn’t have to go to this trouble for us,” Hera said, nodding towards their company.

“Nonsense. It’s the least we can do after everything you have accomplished and been through.” He paused for a moment and looked into her eyes, keeping her hands wrapped in his own. The familiar, fatherly gesture simultaneously warmed her heart and made her squirm inside. “Senator Mothma and some of the others had planned to come out as well, but we didn’t expect you so early. They’re still tied up in a meeting with intelligence.”

 _An even bigger welcoming party. Glad she’d avoided that one_.

Hera pulled her hands back minutely, and exhaled with relief when the general released them, lest her emotions overrule her before the true work of the day had even begun. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the debriefing. Didn’t want to have to rush,” she said casually.

“Of course,” he replied. “We’re scheduled for thirteen-hundred hours in the briefing room. I will see you there.”

Hera plastered a tight smile on her face and nodded before she stepped away, glancing behind her as the man moved on to greet the rest of her small crew—too small, she reflected, even with Kallus and Rex rounding out their numbers on their return.

She hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Sabine jogged up behind her. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” she asked, the same question she’d repeated at least twice in the past day.

Hera shook her head and gave her the same firm answer, “No, I’d really rather do this on my own.”

Hera could read her annoyance plainly, but Sabine nodded in silent assent anyways and stepped aside to allow Hera to continue on unhindered. For just a moment Hera wavered in her decision, but then her resolve took hold again.

Some things were still harder to talk about with the others around. She needed to go alone.

With a quick glance at her chrono, Hera hurried on ahead as much as her weary limbs would permit her. She noted with gratitude that the Ghost’s landing pad was only a couple hundred meters from the central temple, making her journey mercifully short—not that it was unpleasant. The clear, blue skies, sharp smell of fresh air, and vibrant plant life all around her were a welcome change from Lothal’s persistent pollution and devastation. Somewhere off in the trees a bird sang a high, keening melody, and small animals chittered. Everything here was green and growing, fiercely alive and full of promise. After so long spent with the opposite, it felt foreign. Almost wrong.

Because, while this was ostensibly their homecoming, Yavin IV felt like anything but a home.

Could anywhere ever really feel like home without Kanan? The few weeks they had spent here together felt like a lifetime ago, and nothing of his presence lingered in the surroundings.

The _Ghost_ had always been their true home. Would always be.

Her heart twisted and she shoved those thoughts away, determined to not let her mind travel down that path.

It took only a couple minutes to locate the door she needed—a wide, unfamiliar hatch not far from the main hangar entrance, easily accessible in emergencies. Next to it, a sign in bold red letters made its purpose clear. And a control panel to its side boasted an array of buttons to summon help or emergency preparation.

Hera stood at the doorway for a moment, frozen at the gateway to a world she didn’t know at all. This was one of the few major areas of the base she'd never entered before, always choosing to patch up the odd bruise or scrape in the privacy of the Ghost, rather than seek professional help.

Her hand hovered over the button to open the door when it flew open, and a dark-skinned man in a crumpled green flight suit stumbled out, nearly running into her. “S-sorry!” he stuttered, hardly registering her presence, before dashing off deeper into to temple. For a moment, Hera stared after him with concern, but she knew there was nothing she could do for him. She sighed.

And stepped through the door.

The potent scent of antiseptic hit Hera’s nose as soon as she crossed the threshold, making her stomach churn.

It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, as the medcenter hatch slid shut again behind her. She stood in a small room—a reception or waiting area, perhaps. A few plastoid chairs sat clustered in a corner of the otherwise bare space. No being or droid was in sight, but the sounds of urgent voices and medical monitors beeping reverberated off the stone walls through the maze of hallways beyond.

Snatches of conversation reached her ears, and though she tried her best to not eavesdrop, Hera couldn’t help but pick up a few snippets.

“. . . another sedative shot now.”

“Sedative given.”

Hera’s stomach plummeted, to realize that she must have walked into the staff treating an emergency, perhaps a few. She wrapped her arms around herself and steadied her breathing, the threat of nausea rising higher.

Minutes passed as she stood unmoving. A woman’s voice called down a hallway as echoing footsteps walked away, “. . . and have the open bacta tank prepped.”

“Is he gonna make it?” a strained male voice asked, followed by the lower, mechanical muttering of a droid.

Hera’s own anxiety shot upwards in trajectory with the unseen other’s, a sudden need to leave the room and find an open space almost overcoming her. She could always come back another time. Or maybe she didn’t have to come back at all. Quiet ignorance had so far served her well enough, what was another few months of it?

The man’s voice repeated his question, the words punctuated with a pain that resonated to her very bones.

“The chances are good that he’ll pull through,” the droid answered, a little louder, droning on about complications far beyond her medical understanding.

Hera breathed a sudden sigh of relief for whomever the medical team was treating—and for the person beside him who loved him. Her anxiety eased slightly, leaving its cousin fatigue behind. But fatigue she could work with.

 _She could stay. Of course she could stay_.

Things were going to be okay, and there were answers she needed—answers she could safely get nowhere else in the galaxy.

Eyeing the chairs behind her, she chose the one farthest from the door and sat. The whoosh of another door shutting echoed through the halls, and Hera shifted against the uncomfortable material, trying to find a better position. There was no telling how much longer it might be. At least she’d scheduled her appointment with enough time to spare before the afternoon’s meeting. She just had to wait.

For several minutes, she tried to fight the growing urge to sleep, tracing the intricate vines carved into the walls with her eyes, but her eyelids grew heavy, despite her best efforts to keep them open. At least drowsiness was better than nausea any day.

She let it overtake her.

* * *

“General Syndulla.”

“General Syndulla!”

A voice broke into Hera’s dreams, and a light touch on her shoulder startled her awake. Her eyes flew open to find a young woman, perhaps Ezra’s age, standing over her, her dark hair carefully tied up on her head, and concern etched on her round face.

“Sorry,” Hera mumbled. She’d hardly realized that she’d fallen asleep in the first place, but was no longer surprised by the fact. She blinked to clear the haze of hormone-induced slumber from her eyes.

“I’m Medic Piron, and I can take you back for your physical now. I am sorry about the delay,” the girl said, eyeing her curiously. Hera supposed that not many generals fell asleep while waiting for scheduled appointments.

“Yes. I’m ready.” She rose from her chair and followed the young woman’s quick steps down the hallway, past several doors, some open, some closed. The sight of a large ward, with beds crammed in, divided only by curtains or crude barriers, made her anxiety spike again for a moment.

How could she say all the things she needed to say with others’ ears listening?

But they continued on, and Hera breathed a sigh of relief when a solid door opened to reveal a small, private room. General’s privilege, maybe? Whatever the reason, she was grateful to enter the quiet space.

With a quick glance at the datapad in her hand, the medic turned towards her and held a folded square of faded fabric out to her. “If you could please undress and put this on, one of us will be right back in.”

The girl rushed out, and the door shut swiftly behind her, leaving Hera alone. For a minute, Hera just stood, the daze of sleep still clinging to her like a second skin. Something about this room felt like she’d walked into a dream, and she wasn’t one hundred percent certain she’d actually woken up. It looked nothing like the crisp, modern medical bays of the Rebellion’s fleet. Three walls were fashioned out of the same ancient stone as the waiting area, but this space was brighter, making the relief carvings on the walls stand out in far greater detail. Leaves and flowers danced together with a sun and stars in intricate patterns, an unfamiliar script weaving them all together in seamless harmony. Her eyes traced their patterns, wishing she could make sense of the words and whatever language they belonged to, now likely lost to the ravages of time. Something about it reminded her of a world of rust-colored rocks and sand that she’d barely set foot on in seventeen years. Of another home.

Slowly, Hera began removing one piece of clothing after another, releasing first the buttons on her flight suit and sliding it with care over her stomach and hips, grimacing at how taut the fabric had recently become, her once narrow waist increasingly obscured by what still resembled too big a meal more than anything else—like when she had been a small child and the autumn harvest was celebrated with a great feast. She let the fabric drop to the floor, and discarded her thermal leggings with it. Those were too hot to wear here anyways.

Her vest proved a greater challenge. It wasn’t going to fit much longer. The leather had grown increasingly snug over the past few weeks as her once-small breasts had blossomed, the sensitive flesh sore with even the slightest touch. She thought ruefully of the way Kanan’s eyes would grow wide and jaw slacken if he could feel them now, and for a moment lost herself in a memory of him, his fingers tracing circles on her skin, his mouth worshipping her form.

Her body ached at the memory.

Metallic steps echoed on the stone floors outside the door, rousing Hera from her reverie. Quickly, she shed the rest of her clothes, tossing them into a pile in the corner, and covered herself with the offered gown. She shook her head to clear away the last of the drowsiness that still clouded her senses and smoothed out the fabric just in time for a knock at the door.

A standard medical droid appeared. “Hello, General Hera Syndulla, I am 2-1B, and I will be performing your examination today. You may call me One-bee. Please sit down.” The droid bustled over to her side and gestured to the structure behind her. “My records indicate that you are two months overdue for your mandatory post-interrogation assessment.”

Direct and to the point—that was a droid for you. “You don’t know the half of it,” she mumbled, letting her annoyance at the droid’s cheerfulness slip out as she climbed onto the makeshift exam table, a simple wood frame with a thin cushion on top.

“If you have other health concerns, we would be happy to address them today.” The droid cocked its head and waited calmly, datapad in hand, for her to elaborate.

Hera opened her mouth to speak, but found her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth; her throat felt like it was full of nerf-wool. Her stomach churned in warning, and Hera eyed a small wastebasket in the corner of the room, hoping against hope that she might not need it. Not again. This was supposed to be easy. She was here to see medical professionals, after all. They dealt with this sort of thing all the time, she’d told herself over and over. All the time. Maybe.

_Did they?_

“I asked . . .” She took a breath and swallowed hard. Somehow, dealing with all _this_ was far more difficult than running for her life on Gorse or flying on Shantipole had ever seemed. “I asked for an extended appointment because I . . . I’m pregnant. I need a pregnancy evaluation as well.”

Relief flooded her to have the words out in the open, even as she felt her cheeks warm.

“Thank you for telling me.” The droid’s voice softened, if that was possible. “How long have you suspected this?”

“I took a test. Weeks ago on my ship. But that was it. I didn’t want to go to a clinic and risk . . .” her voice trailed off.

One-bee continued its inquiries, and Hera found herself launched into a rapid back-and-forth of progressively deeper questions and answers—dates, events, symptoms, medical history—the story of the past several weeks, of a last tryst and a broken implant, of her capture and beyond, of an unexpected but not unwelcome discovery, of weeks spent ill and struggling to function, spilling out of her like water rushing from a broken dam, as the droid, its metal touch unexpectedly soft, drew her blood and examined her.

“Your weight appears to have dropped three kilograms from your last physical,” the droid commented, when she stepped off a small scale.

Three kilograms. That was three kilograms she didn’t have to lose in the first place. Hera sighed and glanced at her arms and legs as she sat back down on the table. They were far thinner now than even their typical, slender forms. And if she were to shed the gown she wore, she knew her ribs would be visible around her bloated middle. She wrapped her arms tight around her belly while the droid busied itself with the datapad again.

“Blood work confirms your pregnancy, but your test results and symptoms are inconsistent with expected values for a Twi’lek.” One-bee’s volume dropped, and its tone became even more gentle. “We have no partner listed in your personnel records. Do you know the identity and species of the father?”

_The one question in all their discussion that had gone unspoken._

Hera’s eyes fluttered shut, and she pictured brown hair tied back, eyes once bright teal turned the color of starlight, copper-toned arms holding her close at night. She knew why she’d hesitated to officially connect his name to hers, but those reasons seemed so silly, so superficial now. “Kanan. Kanan Jarrus,” she said, her voice shaky. Involuntary tears welled up in her eyes.

One-bee’s photoreceptors caught her gaze and held it, only speaking again after nearly a minute of stillness. “Records indicate that Kanan Jarrus, also known as Caleb Dume, was a human male Jedi Knight who was killed in action on Lothal. I am so sorry for your loss.”

Hera nodded and remained silent as a couple tears slipped down her cheeks. One-bee laid a hand gently on her knee, and Hera placed her own upon it.

“That explains many of the difficulties you have been experiencing with your pregnancy, the severe nausea and vomiting in particular. And while typically a human’s nausea improves as pregnancy progresses, due to your Twi’lek physiology, some of those symptoms are likely to continue throughout the duration of the pregnancy.”

Hera grimaced and wiped her eyes, the looming prospect of being sick for months on end was not a pleasant one, but she’d endure it if she had to.

“But we can prescribe you medication to help with the nausea,” the droid continued.

 _Medication? Just for pregnancy?_ “No, I can’t take that,” Hera protested weakly. “We always have medical supply shortages. You should save that for someone injured who really needs it.”

One-bee cocked its head and gave her a look that brooked no argument. “ _You_ need it. By my calculations, you are currently only retaining thirty-six percent of the nutrition your body needs for your own health, not counting the increased nutritional needs of pregnancy. And I am quite certain that the Rebellion needs its generals functioning at better than thirty-six percent efficacy.”

Spoken like a true droid. Hera rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t really argue with its logic. She was tired of feeling weak and run down, but one concern plagued her. “It is safe for the . . . the baby?” she asked softly.

“Although untested in hybrid pregnancies, I will prescribe you a medication known to be safe for both humans and Twi’leks. It may not cure the nausea completely, but should improve it substantially.”

Hera nodded her assent. “All right. I’ll take it. It is just the nausea that continues or . . .” The vast holes in her knowledge of medicine loomed large over her. She’d never put effort into learning more than simple first aid. It wasn’t her passion or skill. And pregnancy had never been in her sights at all.

 _This was never supposed to happen_ , her mind whispered. _But it did, and you are grateful it did_ , another part whispered back.

“What else do I need to know?” Hera finally asked, sitting up as straight as she could on the edge of the table.

One-bee’s countenance brightened at her request. “Unfortunately, as a general purpose medical droid, I am not programmed with the finer points of obstetrical care, including the nuances of hybrid pregnancies, but I can give you some general information you may find helpful.”

The droid began his speech, sounding very much like snippets ripped from a holobook. “Human-Twi’lek hybrid pregnancies are relatively common throughout the galaxy, although research into the subject has been inadequate since the Clone Wars. Pregnancy length may vary anywhere between the seven-point-five standard months of human gestation and nine standard months of Twi’lek gestation. The combination of foreign genetic material and hormones needed to sustain pregnancy tends to produce symptoms common to both species, but with greater severity, leading to potential complications for the mother.”

Hera nodded. All that she knew. Sabine’s digging on the Holonet had produced many anecdotes attesting to those same facts, and her own experience certainly bore witness to that last one.

“Maternal complications, including risk of serious illness and death are 18 percent more likely to occur for a Twi’lek mother carrying a human’s child, and 56 percent more likely for a human mother carrying a Twi’lek’s child. Miscarriage and stillbirth rates are between 24 and 37 percent higher than non-hybrid Twi’lek pregnancies, mostly due to genetic anomalies. The highest risk for fetal loss is in the first three months of development.”

That she didn’t know. Hera’s heart pounded and stomach squeezed tight as the droid continued on.

“Due to the unpredictable nature of genetic combinations that may result, hybrid individuals vary greatly in health outcomes and appearance . . .” One-bee continued, while Hera found herself increasingly distracted.

She’d seen a couple of hybrid children once on a trip to Lessu when she was a kid. Well, ‘seen’ might be overstating it. Children of mixed heritage had always been acknowledged as little as possible—present but invisible, living on the periphery of a society uncertain how to reconcile their existence with their culture’s complicated history. Her staring had been quickly admonished by her father and attention diverted from the little girl with bright pink hair braided and wrapped around her dark brown lekku, her skin perfectly matched to the human man holding her hand, and the yellow-orange skinned boy on his other side whose smooth head had no lekku or prominences at all. They’d seemed healthy enough to her young eyes, if odd.

Would her baby look like one of them?

_Would it be invisible too?_

“Your pregnancy must be considered high risk, and we will monitor you as closely as we can, given the available resources . . .” the droid droned on, and the pit in Hera’s heart grew.

 _Am I compromising my own health by going through this?_ she wondered. But that thought persisted only a moment. _No, that really doesn’t matter. What matters more is the baby. Will it be okay?_

An uncomfortable idea lodged itself in her mind as the droid continued talking, something she’d never really stopped to consider before. To her, getting pregnant in the midst of a war had meant a baby she’d somehow have to figure out how to protect and care for under the worst circumstances, but what if . . . what if the baby didn’t even make it that far?

_What if she lost it? What if something happened, and it died inside of her long before it ever inhaled its first breath?_

All the ways she’d been forced to slow down with the fatigue, the never-ending nausea, suddenly felt inadequate. She’d already lost so much. If she were to lose this too—the one sliver of Kanan that the Force had somehow decided to gift her in the wake of his death—by her own carelessness . . . she didn’t know how she could forgive herself.

A moment’s guilt for Kanan’s sacrifice reared its ugly head, and she shoved it back down immediately.

_What was she going to do?_

“. . . but that would be inadvisable.”

One-bee’s last phrase caught Hera’s attention and snapped her back out of her whirling thoughts. “Wait, what would be inadvisable?” Her cheeks flushed dark green with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I think I missed . . . most of that.”

One-bee stared at her for a moment, and Hera was thankful that droids did not sigh. If they could, she was sure this one would.

But its next statement surprised her. “I apologize, General Syndulla. That was more information than I should have reasonably expected you to be prepared to absorb at this moment. I will send all the available information I have to your datapad for your reading later. My last statement was simply that the Rebellion does not currently have the capability to perform fetal genetic testing to assess the health of your developing pregnancy. You may be able to access such testing in the private sector, but that would be inadvisable.”

 _Inadvisable_. Hera could almost laugh at such an understatement. She’d avoided going to a clinic on Lothal for fear that recapture of the planet by the Empire might lead them to discovering her pregnancy and connecting the dots. No. There was no way in the nine Corellian hells she was going to risk doing something like that. No one outside of the rebellion could know she had a child, and certainly not that a known Jedi had fathered a child.

Because when it came down to it, what might those genetics reveal? She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know.

“Yes, I agree,” Hera said. But worry and uncertainty still clawed at her insides, both growing larger with each passing second. “But is there any other way to see if it’s okay? If it’s growing?”

 _If it’s still alive,_ that fearful, dark corner of her mind whispered.

A knock at the door startled Hera out of her dark thoughts.

The droid turned its head towards the door. “It would appear that our help in that department has arrived. Come in.”

The hatch slid open to reveal a Nautolan pushing a small cart, equipment piled on its top. The man looked between her and the droid, curiosity in his eyes, perhaps even a bit of longing to stay, but then the droid waved him away. Reluctantly, he left and shut the door behind him.

One-bee pulled the cart closer, and Hera eyed the machine in front of her with curiosity. “What is that?”

“A holosonoscanner,” the droid answered. “Since I am not programmed to perform pelvic exams, and our young doctor who is capable of doing them is currently involved in a surgery, this will allow us to at least assess the health of your pregnancy visually.”

Hera’s eyebrows flew upwards. “We’ll be able to see it?”

“Yes.”

Hera’s heart fluttered at the prospect, both excitement and worry twining together in her mind.

“First, you will need to lie down.”

Hera eased herself back slowly onto the table’s surface, while One-bee turned away and fiddled with the equipment.

“Now, place your heels together and relax your legs open to the sides.”

Again, Hera did as the droid asked, adjusting her hips to try to find a position where the firm surface of the table felt comfortable enough for her lower back, without much success. A couple minutes passed, and Hera’s hands drifted downwards, finding their way to the barely perceptible swell low in her belly. Her eyes fluttered shut. She tried to picture what she might see but found that she could not.

“Next I need you to lift the gown out of the way.”

Hera hesitated a moment, suddenly feeling vulnerable, exposed—the thought of looking inside her own body almost too much.

 _I have to know_ , she told herself and, with a deep breath, bared her lower body as the droid lifted a piece of the machine and held it over her abdomen.

With the press of a button, lights on the side of the device began to glow, and it hovered over her middle. Then the droid turned to the rest of the apparatus on the cart and began pressing others. The lights in the room dimmed, and Hera’s breath caught when suddenly an image appeared, cast in the air from a holoprojector on the instrument’s upper surface. She folded her arms behind her head to try to get a better view and watched with curiosity, as One-bee manipulated the image, shifting here, zooming there, then peeling away layer after holographic layer of tissues she couldn’t have named if she tried, until a round, ball-like shape with other structures hanging off either side hovered above her.

The droid paused, lines appearing across the image. Measuring it, perhaps? “This is your uterus,” it said. “The size appears about right for the date you gave.”

Hera’s fascination grew.

Then the image grew larger, and the front of the shape fell away. Hera gasped, all the air suddenly sucked from her lungs as effectively as if the room had depressurized.

“And this is your baby.”

There, nestled nearly in her womb was a tiny creature, suspended in a watery cocoon—a protostar hanging hidden in its nebula, just beginning to shine with the light of the powerful life boiling inside.

Everything about it was recognizable to her untrained eyes. There was its head, nearly as large as its body, and every limb, every minuscule feature, stood out in sharp detail as the image magnified. Fingers, toes, eyes, nose, mouth all stared back at her—their proportions odd but purpose clear. Even the beginnings of ears were visible on the side of the baby’s head.

 _So perhaps a boy?_ Hera thought. _Could a girl with a human father have ears?_ She didn’t know, nor did she consider the point too closely.

It really didn’t matter.

More lines appeared across the image, and One-bee began a steady narration of the measurements it was taking and their interpretations as Hera continued to gape in awe. “Your fetus is currently measuring seven centimeters in length, which places their growth at about fifteen standard weeks post-conception, with possible variation of about a week due to growth factors and genetic variance. But human and Twi’lek fetuses look remarkably similar at this stage of development.”

“Is that why there are no lekku on its . . . on their head?” Hera asked, correcting herself. Calling the intricate life form in front of her eyes “it” suddenly felt wrong and wholly inadequate.

“Possibly. Lekku do not begin to protrude from the skull until the final two months of Twi’lek gestation, during the surge of brain development before birth. And it is too early to assess the baby’s brain structures for differences.”

Hera nodded. She could content herself with that answer just fine for now. She watched as the droid continued its work, the skin of the baby now slightly translucent to her view, exposing the unfamiliar shapes of their insides. _I know the guts of a ship far better than the inner workings of a body_ , she thought wryly. More lines appeared in various places, and Hera tried to follow them and catch the names of organs she barely knew as the droid narrated. But the only one she really cared about was tucked carefully away in that tiny chest, and beating rapidly.

Without thinking, Hera reached a hand toward the image, tracing the smooth curve of the baby’s spine, the delicate, fluttering heart, the tightly sealed eyelids, with her fingertips. And, as if in response to her caress, the tiny being suddenly jumped, stretching arms and legs out in a rapid movement that nearly startled Hera off the table.

“It moved!”

“The fetus is too small for you to feel their movements yet, but reflexive motions begin as soon as the muscles start developing,” the droid said cheerfully.

A wide smile grew across Hera’s face, her eyes lighting up with a glow they’d been lacking for months, and she stared entranced as the baby, now apparently awakened, continued its dancing, tiny legs kicking against the walls of her womb, arms waving in time with a rhythm she couldn’t hear.

“This little one is making their exam difficult,” the droid muttered, but Hera couldn’t bring herself to care.

That was her child—hers and Kanan’s—mercifully, unequivocally alive and growing within her.

Their own miracle.

For a moment her eyes dropped shut, the remembered sensation of his hand on her shoulder returning, and her smile faltered a little. He should be here. Standing by her shoulder and brushing the tiny form directly with the Force, while she watched their child dance and flip in her belly. She could picture the unmitigated joy and awe on his face, the light glowing in his dim eyes, the intense longing for the life they had eschewed for years, now brought to stunning clarity. If she thought about it too long, she could almost certainly feel his presence beside her.

Hera opened her eyes, keeping her gaze straight ahead on the baby, which had somehow worked themself completely upside down in a matter of moments. It took all her force of will to resist looking over her shoulder.

 _He wouldn’t be there_.

He’d made his choice, just as she’d made hers. His was the choice to save her life—all their lives—so she could have a choice. Hers was the choice to continue living. And live, she would.

Of their own accord, as if interwoven by an external force, the pieces fell together in her mind, and a path presented itself at her feet.

She knew what she had to do.

Suddenly none of her fears or dreams felt too small or too large to set aside, as least for a while. She would take every step she could to ensure their child’s safety, while still fighting for their freedom. The Rebellion had grown. She could grow with it.

The droid’s voice again brought her back to the present. “Everything I can see of the fetus at this time appears to be developing normally, given the early gestation. I would recommend another look in several weeks when the organs are better defined, General Syndulla.”

“All right.” Hera finally looked back over her shoulder at the droid and nodded slightly, before redirecting her gaze to the baby, willing her mind to memorize every detail of the image before her, her heart clenching at the thought of letting it go, even though the child themself resided inside of her.

The hologram went dark, and the droid removed the instrument from her abdomen. “We are done with the exam, and you may dress now,” One-bee said, turning away to arrange the equipment back on its hovercart.

Quickly, Hera sat up, eager to get back into her own clothes after the lengthy examination.

Far too quickly.

Her head spun, and the meager contents of her stomach leapt to her throat. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” she choked out, pressing her palms to her eyes and trying her best to take slow, steady breaths. A firm object touched the back of her hand, and she uncovered an eye to find a metal bowl extended in the droid’s hand, ready for her use.

“Thank you.” Gratefully, Hera took the bowl and held it close, relieved when the worst of the nausea receded without incident after a couple minutes.

“One of the medics will bring your nausea medication to you before you leave. I recommend you take it on a regular schedule at this time, until the nausea and vomiting improve at least moderately.”

Hera was beyond trying to argue that point any further. She wasn’t functional—hadn’t been for weeks now. If the medical staff felt she needed it that badly, then she needed it. She stood without further complaint or unease and threw all her clothes back on as swiftly as she was able, which was not an easy task.

 _I wonder if I can let my flight suit out, even if the vest is a lost cause_ , she thought wryly, frowning at seams of the orange fabric.

“Do you have any further questions?” One-bee asked, as she finally snapped the waist back into place.

Hera turned to face the droid. How was she supposed to answer?

She had a thousand questions—most of them far beyond the power of any basic medical droid to address, most of them she’d have to search for the answers herself in the coming months and years. “No, just . . . send me all the information you can find.”

“Of course, General Syndulla. And one final question. Due to the nature of your visit today, would you like the records of your exam to be made confidential for the time being?”

The droid’s question caught her off guard, and Hera looked down, considering it, but only for a moment. No, she had a plan. It made zero sense to censor the information at this point. She sighed. High Command needed to know, and the sooner, the better.

“No. That won’t be necessary,” she said softly, placing her blaster back into its holster and folding her arms across her chest. “Thank you for your help.”

“It has been a pleasure, General.” One-bee nodded deferentially, and Hera turned towards the door to leave, progressing a mere two steps before a single thought struck her and froze her movements. She turned her head to the side, catching a glimpse of the droid again in the corner of her eye.

“Wait.” Hera paused for the droid to look back up from the datapad it was interacting with. “Can you omit something from the record?”

“Possibly, yes. Depending on what it is,” One-bee replied.

Hera closed her eyes. The words pained her to her core to pronounce out loud, but she did it anyways.

 _It’s necessary. If the records were ever compromised,_ she told herself. _He would understand_. Even though she wasn’t sure she really believed it was true.

Then she pressed the button.

And walked out the door.

* * *

All things considered, the debriefing had gone a lot smoother than Hera had expected. Somehow she had managed to get through the vast majority of her first report projecting an aura of dispassionate calm, even Kanan’s name rolling off her tongue almost as smoothly as if she were discussing a meal they’d eaten together last week, rather than his loss, Ezra’s loss, the victory they had scored at such a heavy price.

Perhaps it had something to do with the full meal in her stomach, the first such she’d held down in the past month, or just sheer relief at the near complete abatement of the ever-present queasiness affording her energy.

Although, if she were being honest with herself, maybe the way she’d managed to get through it was simply to disengage her emotions so completely from the discussion that she felt nothing at all as she spoke and stared at the group of faces seated in front of her. Some of those present were familiar and some were not, but all represented the upper echelons of the Rebellion’s leadership.

And she could hardly bring herself to care.

“Here is additional security footage we found of the purrgil attaching themselves to the Chimaera.” Sabine gestured behind her to the next recording displayed on the screen behind their heads.

“As you can see,” Hera resumed her narration as the images played across the screen, turning her head to view those final painful moments, “the process was quick and efficient, with several large creatures taking the bulk of each Star Destroyer, damaging them substantially in the process, and smaller ones coming alongside them to assist. When they were all securely attached, they began their preparations for hyperspace . . .” for a single second her voice threatened to break, but she pressed on, “and made the jump within moments. Ezra was still on board, directing their actions, as far as we could discern. Save a personal recording he left for our crew, that was the last heard from him.”

A few eyebrows in the gathered crowd rose as they watched the three crippled Star Destroyers vanish from the frame one by one, the sky left eerily empty in their wake. Some appeared impressed, others skeptical—their minds resistant to believing what their eyes had just seen. It _was_ a ludicrous story, she had to admit. She’d have a hard time believing it herself, had she not spent years witnessing first hand the incredible depths of the Force’s power. Her part of this story all told, Hera felt her own burst of energy flag, and wished for a moment that the lengthy meeting were over already, not still left with hours to go.

But she would not be so lucky.

Hera crossed her arms in front of her chest and waited for the firestorm to erupt.

And erupt it did.

A dozen voices quickly spoke up—rapid fire questions which they all tried their best to answer, comments on the strangeness of the affair, one person expressing outright disbelief.

It was General Dodonna who held up his hand, bringing the furor to a sudden hush. “Overall, a stunning victory, General Syndulla. The work you and your team have done on Lothal is to be commended. It is only unfortunate that what you have achieved is irreproducible for the Rebellion as a whole without the Jedi and came at so high a cost.”

Sabine spoke out in reply, surprising Hera, “General, Ezra might still be out there somewhere. If we can find him, we can bring him back. I’ve calculated a number of possible trajectories they might have taken; we just need the time and resources to go track him.”

Hera gave Sabine a pained look. How many times in the past weeks had they discussed this very thing? How many times had they themselves acknowledged the reality that probably awaited them should they actually attempt it?

The reality which Mon Mothma, her voice soft but commanding, now brought back into the present. “I am sorry, Lady Wren. That would require time and resources we simply do not have. And according to your own mission report, the heavy damage the Chimaera sustained may well have proven fatal to all aboard the ship. We must consider Commander Bridger to be missing, and likely killed, in action at this time.”

The small flame of hope visible in Sabine’s countenance dissipated again, her jaw tightening at the senator’s words. Hera bit her lip and looked away.

General Dodonna spoke again, “And even if we could find him, where we find Bridger, we would likely find Thrawn and the rest of the Seventh Fleet as well. To pursue would be unwise. We must let him go.”

“He and Kanan Jarrus will be greatly missed,” Bail Organa cut in, his holographic presence heretofore silent, “not only for their remarkable abilities but for their symbolic presence in our midst as Jedi. The inspiration they gave to the Rebel Alliance was as important to our cause as their individual work, and sorely needed in these trying times.”

Hera’s arms wrapped tighter around her, her own heart squeezing at his statement, but it was the next one that really cut deep into her chest.

“Unless you’ve got more Jedi hiding around somewhere–” the man, whom Hera knew only by name as General Draven, an intelligence officer, gestured upwards towards her, his tone bitter, “–that is all the Rebellion will ever see of them at this rate.”

The world contracted around Hera. She froze and her stomach churned with an incomprehensible, wordless fear—brought back to reality an indeterminate amount of time later when the minute shaking of Sabine’s head caught her eye. Hera blinked, trying to follow her gist as Sabine’s eyes flicked downward and back up. Hera’s mind stumbled for a moment to guess what she was hinting at, until she looked down to find one of her hands had drifted downward and wrapped itself protectively around her belly.

Hera sucked in a sharp breath, and slowly lifted the arm back up to her other, crossing them firmly in front of her chest again, while surreptitiously eyeing their audience, grateful for once that the crowd of mostly old men seemed to have noticed nothing out of the ordinary at all, their minds wholly focused on the continued debate.

“I think it’s time we moved on to your recovery efforts,” Mon Mothma steered the conversation back to the topic at hand.

Hera was more than happy to move on.

The next few hours passed more quickly than anticipated, adrenaline buoying Hera up again as the team continued with their presentations on Lothal’s security and recovery efforts, but afternoon dragged on into evening, and by the time Sabine had discussed Lothal’s interim government, Rex had detailed his work training a civilian defense force, she had talked about the infantile air defense team, and Kallus had addressed the brilliant disinformation campaign he’d concocted to convince the Empire that Lothal was languishing and dying well enough on its own without the Empire’s retaliation, she felt her burst of energy beginning to wane again.

Yet no matter how amazing her own bunk sounded at that moment, her work was still left undone. With perhaps the most difficult moments left to come.

The presentation concluded, and knots of people formed around the room. But as the crowd filtered away, Hera’s focus narrowed to just one.

Intense relief flooded her when that one came her direction of her own accord, and alone.

“Amazing work, General. You should be proud of all you’ve accomplished on Lothal in such a short period of time,” Mon Mothma said.

“Thank you.” Hera gave a soft smile. Praise from the senator was never received lightly, regardless of how hollow it felt inside. She shot a glance at their company, now whittled down to her crew and only a couple others remaining. No doubt most of the group had left quickly in search of a late dinner.

Hera dropped her voice, trying—and failing—to not trip over her words. “Senator, there’s. . . there’s something I need to speak with you privately about . . . concerning the mission on Lothal.”

“Of course. We can set up something for later this week, if you like,” the senator replied.

“No, it’s urgent.” Hera bit her lip, hoping she didn’t sound too desperate, but that couldn’t be helped. Her stomach suddenly churned again; the peace of the last few hours disturbed by her anxiety. She sighed and continued. “I know it’s late already, and it could perhaps wait until tomorrow, but it would be best if we talked tonight.”

Mon Mothma’s brows knit together slightly with concern as she looked at Hera, but no other outward signs betrayed her thoughts. “Of course, General. We can go to my office.” She turned to the others remaining to wish them a good night.

Hera shot a glance behind her. Both Zeb and Sabine stood silently watching, their eyes burning holes in her back. Hera nodded at them, and gave a tight smile to attempt to assuage their concern.

Not that it worked.

Sabine attempted a smile in return, but it did little to mask the worry in her eyes. Zeb crossed his arms and looked away with feigned nonchalance.

Hera turned back towards the door, her smile falling away. No matter how much they might try to, she couldn’t allow Sabine and Zeb to take care of her at every moment. This was one more thing she needed to do herself.

Only a moment later, Hera found herself swept away down the hall with the senator, winding their way through the labyrinthine passages back towards the main hangar and the lifts. The closer they got, the more crowded the hallways became, the two women forced to weave their way single file through a steady stream of people of a wide variety of species and genders. The central hangar buzzed with latent energy as they crossed the wide space, numerous pilots preparing eagerly to fly off to wherever the missions called them next.

 _In just a couple months the Rebellion had grown so much. What might it be after a few more?_ Hera contemplated. The stray thought infused her with a sense of unlooked for hope and a much needed burst of energy to counteract her fatigue and the tight knot inside her stomach. She soon found herself in an unfamiliar wing of the compound.

“Come in and sit down,” Mon Mothma gestured graciously through a door to a couple of simple chairs positioned in front of a unadorned gray desk.

Hera entered and gratefully planted herself in one. Being off her feet felt like heaven after so many hours standing. She could probably have fallen asleep there had she tried for more than a couple minutes, but the carvings on the stone wall to the side of the office caught her eye and immediately, all her interest.

These were even more complex than those in the medcenter—a whole story laid out in perhaps three meters—but what struck her the most was an enormous tree aflame in the middle of the wall, and in its center, a great bird spreading its wings against the flames but not consumed.

 _Sabine would have a field day in here_ , Hera thought. For her part, seeing the symbol they’d embraced so long ago staring down at her again just made Hera’s heart ache.

“Your crew has always been fond of the Starbird, have they not?”

“Yes. Yes, they have.” Hera turned her attention back to the senator across the desk from her.

“I do not know all the details of the Massassi legend, but I believe it is similar to those found elsewhere in the galaxy.” Mon Mothma threw a glance and a fond smile at the relief on the wall, and Hera followed her gaze back. “The bird that is reborn in fire. Quite a poetic metaphor, really.”

“Yes,” Hera said. But she had no other reply. She had never been afforded the chance to read poetry, but the story she had always known. It was the sort of story mothers told their children—the melodic voice of her mother reciting it came instantly to mind. And if Hera’s eyes lingered a bit too long on the bird and the flames before tearing them away again, the other woman did not say.

Changing the subject was far easier anyways. “How have things been running here since we’ve been gone?” Hera asked. “I’ve been keeping up with the reports, but it’s hard to get a full sense of what’s going on from a datapad.”

“Indeed, it is.” Mon Mothma chuckled. “We’ve incorporated three full rebel cells in the past six weeks alone, operating out of Chalacta, Belderone, and Raithal. It’s a blessing, certainly, to see our numbers growing, but a bit more chaotic than I would wish.”

Hera smiled, picturing the serene senator managing the chaos of the burgeoning Rebellion with her usual stoic calm. “I’m sure you’ve made short work of putting it all in order, with your sense of command and authority.”

“I can’t say it’s been easy, but we do what we must.” The other woman relaxed and sat back in her chair with a smile. “It’s good to have you back, General Syndulla. Your idealism and enthusiasm have been missed.”

The light in Hera’s eyes dimmed a little. Idealism? She was pretty sure she’d left that buried under a mountain of ashes on Lothal. Enthusiasm? She hardly comprehended the word anymore. “Thank you, Senator. It’s good to be back, but it’s hard too . . .” Hera paused, trying to find a way to lead into what really needed to be said, and coming up short handed. “A lot of things have changed, both for my crew, and for myself,” she said, her voice growing soft.

Mon Mothma’s expression again grew serious, and she leaned forward, sensing the change in direction. “You said there was something you needed to speak with me about? Regarding Lothal?”

“Yes . . .” Hera hesitated again and heaved a sigh. “I need to ask for at least two more weeks of leave on Lothal before officially returning to my duties here on Yavin Four.”

The senator’s eyes narrowed. “At least? What else do you need to do? Your reports indicated that your training program there was designed to be self-sustaining.”

Hera didn’t bother to answer the questions. The answer would come soon enough. She took a deep breath and continued, “And I need to step down from combat flights and rescind command of Phoenix Squadron . . . indefinitely.”

“Indefinitely?” Confusion crept into the senator’s voice.

“Yes,” Hera paused and looked upwards, as if by staring towards the sky she might be able to grasp the best words floating past. An anxious quiver ran down her lekku, and she swallowed hard to keep back the rising bile in her stomach.

Words from the past drifted into her mind. She caught them.

“You told me once that you envied pilots for our ability to fly away from our problems, but this isn’t something I can just fly away from.” Hera met the senator’s eyes again, a thousand emotions leaping up into her own all at once. “You know as well as I do that no one can really leave their problems far behind. And the truth is that I don’t want to.”

An image of her baby dancing in her womb flashed in front of her eyes, the very picture of peace in the midst of turmoil. Hera took another breath.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.” Mon Mothma’s eyes flew open wide, and her jaw dropped. For a few moments of stunned silence, she appeared to try to speak yet could find no words to say, which Hera might have found amusing had the subject not been so serious.

“I see. That does change things,” the senator finally replied, her neutral politician’s mask slipping back on her face as fluidly as if they’d been discussing the weather.

Hera continued on, “I want to continue doing everything I can for the Rebellion, and I will. But I went to medical today and was told that I am considered high risk. I am no expert in medicine, but you can read my records. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.” She gestured in the direction of the senator’s datapad, set aside and darkened on the corner of the desk.

Mon Mothma picked up the datapad, but did not turn it on. “You would like me to read them now?”

“I think it would be best,” Hera replied carefully, exhaling with relief when the other woman did so without further question. But it was hard to contain her mounting anxiety as time stretched on in silence, the slight furrow in Mon Mothma’s brow growing more noticeable with each passing minute.

Finally, she looked back up at Hera. “And the father?” the senator asked warily, noting the glaring omission in the record. “Human, unknown?”

There had been no question in Hera’s mind beforehand that the other woman would strike at the heart of the matter quickly, but it made it no easier to answer. She compelled herself not to break eye contact, but her face contorted involuntarily with resurgent grief, and when she opened her mouth, she could only force out a single word.

“No.”

“I’m so sorry.” Mon Mothma’s eyes softened and her head angled towards her. “Kanan Jarrus would have been a wonderful father.”

Hera’s eyes grew wide, a stray tear escaping each of them. “You _knew?_ ” she exclaimed.

_How? How long? How?_

Mon Mothma let out what might have been a soft chuckle and gave a sad smile. “Your commitment to professionalism was admirable, but it was always apparent to the keen observer. And even before that, reports from Fulcrum years ago clarified the nature of your relationship.”

“Of course they did,” Hera grumbled. All that time she’d tried to keep their relationship on the back burner, thinking it would be better for Rebellion operations, and they’d assumed it anyways? She sighed. “We’d never put it in our personnel files. That was how we–” Hera caught herself “–how I wanted it. It seemed important at the time—more professional, more focused on the cause at hand. And now . . .”

All the energy she’d mustered throughout the day evaporated at once, and Hera’s shoulders slumped and head dropped into her hands. She’d fought these regrets nearly every day, and still they came back to haunt her—the regrets and the tears that accompanied them. A few poured into her hands as she tried in vain to keep her emotions at bay. With a soft rustle of fabric and gentle hand on her shoulder, Hera found Mon Mothma had moved to her side, and she leaned into the other woman’s touch, relishing it for a couple quiet minutes. Finally, she wiped the remaining tears from her eyes and laid her hands in her lap, which the senator immediately wrapped in her own.

“We didn’t plan on having a child. The opposite, really. There was no time, not when the fight against the Empire consumed our lives, but somehow this happened anyway, right before he died.” Hera forced herself to meet Mon Mothma’s gaze again, a fire rekindled in her eyes. “And if this is what the Force has left me with, then I will do whatever I can to protect them.”

The senator smiled with gentle understanding. “If we cannot fight for the sake of our children, then what are we fighting for?”

Hera nodded and grimaced. “There’s something . . . else,” she added slowly, her lips compressing to a thin line.

 _Was it her wildest hope? Was it her greatest fear?_ Hera couldn’t have answered those questions had she tried.

Mon Mothma’s brows drew together, but she said nothing.

Hera crossed her arms to hug them to her chest, as if the action might slow the rapid beating of her heart. “On Ryloth, we had a saying: ‘ _Asark ji favna Anoyan debek nol; eti cahsinark dao rao bucol t'u._ ’” Her tongue tripped a little over the syllables she’d used so rarely as an adult. So rarely they felt strange, yet somehow, right. “It translates roughly to ‘Beware, the house the Force visits; it will come again and again.’ I don’t know anything about the genetics of Force abilities, but if this baby is like their father . . .”

She hadn’t really let herself consider this possibility before today, and even now it was a nest of gutkurrs she’d rather leave untouched unless absolutely necessary—but knew she ought to think about regardless. Prepare for.

But prepare for what? Just like they had with Ezra, she knew she would give everything to protect her baby, but what happened after that? What happened to Force sensitive children when they grew up without a teacher? She’d seen Kanan teaching Ezra day in and day out but could no more replicate it than she could fly to Lothal without a hyperdrive in a single lifetime.

Understanding coupled with worry dawned in Mon Mothma’s eyes, and she nodded and frowned, her reply hesitant, “Yes. I understand your concern. We have had to relocate a number of younglings over the years for that reason.”

Hera pressed on, giving voice to her fears. “The child of a known Jedi and a rebellion general may not be safe anywhere except within the rebellion itself, and even then . . .” her voice trailed off, a thousand horrifying thoughts filled her mind, memories of the years Kanan and Ezra spent chased by Inquisitors, hunted by Vader, tracked down by Maul.

She shivered at the thought of that last one, the dark sider’s invasion of her mind still all too real and fresh in her memory.

“I have nowhere to hide a baby, except on the Ghost,” she concluded.

“And your family . . .”

“Ryloth is still under Imperial occupation,” Hera said hurriedly, bitterness creeping into her voice as she continued, “and Free Ryloth’s fight never ends. My family is all here.”

“I understand.” The senator nodded, pursuing the subject no further. “And what would you do here?”

Despite her weariness, Hera forced her chin up. “I will not—cannot—abandon the Rebellion, but I need to find a way I can serve as much as possible while primarily staying on base.”

Mon Mothma sat back in her chair, and drew a hand to her chin, sinking deep into thought. After a minute, she eyed Hera speculatively. “Since you cannot fight in combat, would you be willing to teach? You have many skills our young pilots could benefit from.”

The anxiety churning in Hera’s stomach at the mental picture she’d conjured of sitting at a desk for months or years on end eased at the woman’s words, and her spirit brightened. “Yes. Yes, I think I would enjoy that.”

Mon Mothma nodded and remained silent another moment. Finally, she spoke, “General Merrick has been suggesting we create a dedicated starfighter training program. Managing the entire force has become more difficult for him as our recruitment has grown. I will speak with him and can recommend you as the head of that program. Your record on teaching individual pilots in our own ranks, plus your recent experience on Lothal would make you an ideal candidate, but . . .”

“But what?” The hesitation in the senator’s words rattled Hera’s nerves again.

“Would you truly be happy serving in that capacity, giving up the stars for a life on the ground?”

Hera sighed and closed her eyes, the images of the baby—of the tiny thing she now found herself fighting desperately for, the new purpose driving her forward—called back to her mind. Such a different purpose than she’d ever envisioned before. “We talk so much about sacrifice in the Rebellion. We’ve all given things up to be here, putting our lives on the line over and over again.” She opened her eyes and met the other woman’s face again. “But no one ever tells you what to do when the thing you need to sacrifice is what you sacrificed so much for in the first place. All I’ve ever wanted to do, since I was seven years old, was fly. Since I was eleven—fly and fight the Empire. And I’ve thrown myself at that goal for seventeen years, but . . .”

 _Babes are only for today_ , Mama had always said—a saying made particularly bitter by a stray landmine when she was nine.

Even though she knew now what her mother had really meant.

“Younglings grow, and the things we do in life can change with them. Life on the ground won’t be forever, and I will still fly as my health allows,” she said with conviction. “And if our situation gets desperate, if the choice is between myself and my child or the entire Rebellion’s survival, I _will_ fight anyways. That’s no choice at all.”

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Hera had no reply to that. Hope was all she had, really. Her days held no assurances anymore. None at all. And they both knew it to be painfully true.

Hera pushed herself out of her chair to stand, and Mon Mothma rose beside her. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” she said, bracing herself against the desk as a wave of dizziness washed over her and black spots momentarily invaded her vision.

The senator’s steadying hand landed on her shoulder. “It was the least I could do. I will speak with General Merrick tomorrow. And with your permission, I will likely need to inform at least a couple other members of High Command of the full situation.”

Hera nodded and looked back up as her vision cleared. “Granted.”

Then, to her surprise, the other woman wrapped her arms around Hera’s shoulders, pulling her close. Tentatively, Hera hugged her back. Their embrace was short, but meant more than she could put into words, a sense of momentary peace and support pervading her tired frame. Wordlessly, she turned towards the door.

“And Hera,” Mon Mothma’s voice behind Hera halted her steps. She turned to face the other woman again, to see the warmth of her sad smile not quite reaching her eyes. “May the Force be with you.”

Hera thought of the last time she’d said those words herself, when her heart had been full of a very different, desperate hope. She thought of the way Kanan’s face had brightened with joy in response to her words. She thought of the surety she’d had in the way the Force had always led their steps.

And how uncertain, how tentative all those steps felt now.

How she made them nonetheless.

At any other moment, those words might have conjured tears, but just right now Hera had none, just a bone-aching weariness and intense longing for her bunk, alongside that one small spark of light that kept her pressing on despite it all.

“Thank you, Mon,” she said softly.

The door opened in front of Hera as she turned away again, the dim, night-cycle lights of the hallways beckoning her on. On towards something new. Towards a Rebellion growing as surely and steadily as the life inside of her.

 _Who was Hera Syndulla if she wasn’t flying against the Empire, heedless of the cost?_ she wondered.

She had no idea. But she was about to find out.

And without looking back, Hera stepped through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Three more stories yet to come! And *fingers crossed* the next couple shouldn't take as long to craft. You can find me on **[tumblr](http://veritascara.tumblr.com/)** for updates and snippets as I write. Thank you so much for reading!


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